


Unlikely

by Colubrina



Series: Christmas Fics [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/Hr Advent 2018, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: Hermione Granger doesn't believe the results of her Divination project.  After all, how likely would it be that Draco Malfoy is her one true love?  But then, years later, she goes to a Christmas wedding and what is unlikely may well be what is true.





	Unlikely

**Part One**  
  
If there was anything more idiotic than her Divinations homework, Hermione Granger would eat her robe.  She’d have done just about anything to not do this stupid assignment but all the other project options had been taken by the time the list got to her.  She didn’t get to read the tea leaves, or throw dice, or read tarot, or do any of the other moronic, empty-headed, worthless fortune-telling lies for her project.  No, she got to do love magic.  
  
Lavender had looked absolutely green with envy when she realized she’d passed this up.  Stupid Trelawney, of course, had refused to let them trade.  
  
It was the worst class, and this was the worst project ever. Go out in the darkness.  In December. At night. Alone. Light a candle – but only the right kind of candle, of course – and sit under the right kind of tree, and the first person to walk past was your true love.  
  
Hermione had a terrible feeling the only other person out at this hour would be Hagrid, and she’d be teased unmercifully for that if anyone ever found out.    
  
She folded her feet under her, leaned up against the tree, lit the candle, and waited.  The cold of the ground soaked through her robe and her trousers and was cozying right up to her skin and no one was coming by.  She shivered, and a gust of wind threatened to blow the candle out, and she cupped her hand around because she was not getting a bad mark on this assignment because she couldn’t keep a candle lit.  The flame sputtered down and she sucked in her breath. “Come on, you stupid thing,” she muttered. “Stay lit, you can do it.”  
  
“Talking to yourself?”  
  
She jerked her head up.  Malfoy stood sneering down at her, his nearly white hair glowing in the moonlight.    
  
“It’s the first sign of losing it, you know,” he went on.    
  
“Get lost,” she managed to force out a throat suddenly too tight to breathe, much less speak.  With a curl of his lip and a kick of dirt her way that knocked out the candle’s last attempt at life, Draco Malfoy sauntered off.  “And stay lost,” she added under her breath, but all the blood had drained from her face and her heart was racing. How was she supposed to write this up?  This was the most unrealistic, unlikely result ever. Harry would somehow manage to see her report. Ron would see. They would never ever let her hear the end of this.  
  
Ugh.  She wished it had been Hagrid.  
  
  
**Part Two, Ten Years Later**  


Hermione was well and truly over weddings, especially Christmas weddings.  She’d been happy at Harry and Ginny’s wedding, somewhat indifferent at Luna’s, but Ron’s felt like sand against her skin.  It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy for him, or that she regretted their break up, or any such silliness. She was genuinely happy he’d found love.  A bit perplexed he’d found it with Pansy Parkinson, but stranger things had come to pass

It was the pitying looks.  It was the thinly veiled questions of “How are _you_ doing?” and “So, have _you_ met anyone lately?”

She was _fine_.  Honestly, they’d broken up years ago.  And it had been mutual. And she’d dated plenty of men since.  There had been the one who gave her a cookbook subscription for her birthday.  The one who felt one shower a week was ample. The one who seemed perfect right up until the moment he said he was moving to South America in a week.

She kissed Pansy on the cheek in the receiving line, smiled at a very pregnant Ginny, and made her way to the bar.  Pansy had told her she’d make sure to toss the holly and poinsettia bouquet _right to you, honey._ She needed a drink.  Maybe two.

Three wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“One firewhiskey on the rocks,” she said to the bartender before she noticed who else was standing there.  “Malfoy,” she said as politely as she could. Time had been good to him. If he wore long sleeves, well, it was December and cold outside.  But his narrow, nervous face had become a bit warmer, and the mean lines around his eyes had softened.

“Granger,” he said.  “Having fun?”

She opened her mouth to say that, yes, of course, she was.  Wasn’t it a lovely day, and Pansy was a lovely bride, and everything was lovely, lovely, lovely.  Weren’t the Christmas decoratons cunning? She especially liked the dozens of decorated trees around the room.  So festive. Then she shrugged and told him the truth. “Not really.”

He took a long swallow of his drink and stared down at the bottom of his glass. “Me either.”

Hadn’t he been dating Pansy?  Hermione couldn’t remember, but he must have picked up her train of thought because he said in a sour voice, “I’m not jealous, Granger, give me a little credit.”

 “Sorry,” she said, and she was too.  She’d gotten enough of that today to find herself in uncomfortable sympathy with Draco Malfoy.  That sympathy made her pull out a stool and plant herself next to him.

 “I just don’t like weddings,” he said.  “And at Christmas too. Two annoying things at once.”

She’d met more than her share of men who shared that opinion, and her mouth twisted.  He displayed that odd knack of reading her mind again because he snorted. “I’m not scared of commitment, or whatever stereotype you’ve latched onto inside your pretty head, Granger.  The food is bad.”

That tricked a laugh out of her because it was true.  Dry chicken. Limp pasta. Salmon that bore more resemblance to rubber than food.  Even holiday biscuits that were being passed were dry and sugary rather than tempting. Then she replayed what he’d said.  “Pretty?” she asked with a bit of a smirk. She let her eyes trace the lines of his face. Flirtation she could do, and why not treat herself to a little Christmas fun.  It would make this night pass more quickly.

“Don’t be coy,” he said.  He took another swallow of his drink. “It’s not attractive to pretend you don’t know you’re hot.”

“How about complimenting you?” she asked with a grin. It had been too long since she’d played this game with someone who could keep up with her. “Is that attractive?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“You can tell me I have nice eyes,” he said. “A good arse.  That I’m clever. Just don’t bother lying and pretending I’m a decent person or that you plan to owl the next day.”

His face was too casual.  The words were too light and uncaring.  Hermione set her drink down and put a hand on his arm without thinking, wanting to offer sympathy.  When he flinched, she realized she’d touched his Mark, and she made a point of leaning toward him and pressing her hand down against him.  “You were sixteen,” she said.

He looked away.

“You were terrible,” she said.  She didn’t know why she needed to say this.  Maybe it was the flash of despair in his eyes.  Maybe it was the way he assumed everyone would condemn him.  “You were a spoiled brat and cruel and - ”

“And I should probably go,” he said.  He moved to stand up and she pushed him back down.  

“And you were a _child_ ,” she said.  “What kind of person do you think I am that I’d carry a grudge for a decade?  That I’d throw all that in your face at _Christmas_?”

“A rational one?” he suggested.  “One like everyone else?”

“If I were going to carry a grudge, it’d be against that godawful Trelawney.”  She wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive that woman for spouting off a prophecy that had put them all in Voldemort’s sights.  If she’d had to have one moment of authentic vision, couldn’t she have announced the next winner of the Quidditch World Cup or something?

“Trelawney?”  Draco Malfoy looked perplexed. “What did you have against her?”

So many things.  Hermione could have listed off all the hours she’d wasted thanks to that woman, or the way her overheard bit of seerage had ended up leading to Harry’s parents' deaths, but the memory that bubbled its way up to the top of her brain was an especially petty one.  She laughed when she considered it, and Malfoy gave her a politely quizzical look so she had to explain. “She made us all do divination projects,” Hermione said.

“She did teach Divination,” he said dryly.  “What did you expect? Arithmetic problems?”

“I got stuck lighting a candle at night in December and waiting for my one true love to walk by,” she said.

“What happened?” he asked. “Hagrid go by, out for a midnight stroll, off to chop down a Christmas tree?”

“No,” she said. It was just too funny.  She’d never told anyone because as a young teenager it had been far too embarrassing, and then it hadn’t ever come up.  Old school assignments tended not to and, anyway, the only person who’d properly appreciate how funny it really was was Malfoy, and she hadn’t seen him in years. “It was you.”

“Me?”  If she’d ever wondered what _dumbfounded_ looked like, Malfoy’s face would have enlightened her.

“Right?” she said. “It’s absurd.  You were out doing god-knows-what - some obnoxious bit of mischief, probably - and asked if I were talking to myself and I told you to get lost.”

He went completely white.  He must have remembered the night.  He’d had no idea why she’d been out there, of course.  It had to be a hilarious to him as it was to her.

“I mean, of all the people in the world,” she went on. “You and me.”

“It seems unlikely,” he said.  He finished his drink and stood up.  “The band has started. If we make an appearance on the dance floor, we could probably sneak out in a bit and get a real dinner somewhere and still be back in time for the final toasts.”

Hermione considered the roast beef she’d seen earlier.  “That’s not a terrible idea,” she said slowly. It was better than trying to fill up on salad, which had been her first plan.  She might kill for a decent Christmas pudding.

He held out a hand and she took it.  “I didn’t expect to survive the war,” he said almost conversationally.

“Oh?”

The smile that stole over his face made something in her chest flutter.  It became hard to swallow, and her breathing seemed to have sped up. It wasn’t possible.  This was pheromones, maybe, or the drink. Or the way the end of the year always held out the possibility of new hope. Or maybe just the general romantic atmosphere of weddings.

“I’ve learned to believe in the improbable,” he said. “The unlikely. The absurd.”

“No,” she said.  It wasn’t possible.

He leaned over until his mouth was at her ear.  Had she ever been this close to him? She couldn’t remember.  She could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured, “Want to find out?”

She did.

It was ridiculous and stupid.   _Draco Malfoy._ But it was Christmas and a time for miracles.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” he asked.

 

**Part Three, Nine Months Later**

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Hermione nearly screamed the words, then panted as another contraction hit.

“Just breathe,” Draco said.

“Fuck you,” she muttered.  “You try breathing when your body is trying to push out a bowling ball.”

“A baby,” he said.

She picked up a book and hurled it at him.  He dodged with the ease of long practice. Damn Quidditch player reflexes.  Another contraction, and this time she grabbed his hand and squeezed until the pain passed.

“I’m going to kill you,” she said.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  Her sweaty, disgusting forehead. “Unlikely,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to moonlightmasquerade for beta reading.


End file.
